


What Happens to Champions

by Margaery



Series: Spoils of Victory [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Ritual Sex, Roger is a competitive guy okay, Victors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margaery/pseuds/Margaery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wait,” Stan says, suddenly suspicious, “this isn’t about you wanting to be better than Rafa, is it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens to Champions

**Author's Note:**

> This exists in the same universe as [Break the Rules with Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/843150), but it's not necessary to read that fic first, as this is a standalone.
> 
> As always, nothing in this is true, and although these characters are inspired by the public personas of living people, nothing is implied about the actual Stan Wawrinka or Roger Federer.

Staring at Roger Federer across the net is always a little bit like staring down a panther in a cage, leashed power corded in lithe muscles, waiting to spring and tear out your throat. Gracefully.

Stan is completely unprepared for what it means to be facing down that panther in a locker room, with the entirety of that powerful focus directed on you and you alone, and no net in between. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

“This isn’t my first time, you know,” he says, weakly, fumbling with the zipper to his bag, trying to regain some control over this situation. The little Australian Open trophy embossed there winks up at him, and he resists the urge to rub his finger over it for luck.

Perhaps Roger notices, because his grin grows, if possible, even more panther-like. “Noooo,” he says, drawing it out, taking a step closer. “But the atmosphere last time must have been… difficult.”

Difficult. That’s one way to describe “Rafa Nadal lost the Australian Open final to you because his back fucked up, so even though he’s doing the after-final ritual very correctly and earnestly, he also looks like he’s about to cry and you know if you take too long to finish Tio Toni will murder you for keeping Rafa from the trainers, so it’s _kinda hard_ to enjoy the _holy shit you just won a Grand Slam and Rafa’s hand is on your dick_ part.” Difficult. Yeah.

Stan’s so rarely been part of the Slam/M1000 ritual that he doesn’t really know how to act even from the loser’s position, let alone the winner’s. Once with Novak, when Novak was 20 and bouncy (well, Novak is always bouncy – if Roger’s a panther, Novak’s a terrier), and once last year with Rafa, when Rafa was winning all the trophies in the world. That’s it, that was the sum of his experience until Melbourne this year, and now it’s not even three months later and Roger is grinning at him like he knows exactly how nervous Stan is.

“Relax,” Roger says, and his grin softens a little. “You earned this, you better enjoy it.”

Stan lets himself be backed into a locker, Roger’s arms coming up to bracket his shoulders, Roger’s thigh insinuating itself between his. His pulse suddenly feels faster than it ever did out on court today, even when he won the second-set tiebreak, even when he raced out to the early lead in the third set, even when he realised that he really was about to win his first Masters title.

He swallows, and Roger’s face goes predatory again.

“Wait,” Stan says, suddenly suspicious, “this isn’t about you wanting to be better than Rafa, is it?”

Roger leans in, his breath hot on Stan’s ear, and Stan closes his eyes as Roger says, his voice dangerously rough, “Yes, this is exactly about me wanting to be better than Rafa.”

Stan opens his mouth to respond, but Roger chooses that moment to rock his hips forward, and Stan forgets every word he knows.

Roger leans back again, until Stan’s eyes focus on him. Once he’s sure he has Stan’s attention, he says, tipping his chin up, “I couldn’t want to do it well just because it’s you?”

“I,” Stan says, and stops.

“I couldn’t want to properly show my conqueror,” Rog says, as his hand slides under Stan’s shirt, warm and broad on Stan’s stomach, “what it means to be Swiss #1?”

The teasing shouldn’t go to Stan’s dick like that, it shouldn’t make the blood run hot in his veins, but it does, and Stan knows that Roger knows that it does, knows it in the satisfied curl of his smile, in the lazy way his hand dips below the waistband of Stan’s shorts, magisterial and sure.

“You won Monte Carlo,” Roger says, his eyes still shining from battle, “and you won the Australian Open, and you are the champion.”

Stan’s finding it hard to breathe, but he could get used to the fierce joy that blooms behind his ribcage, as if transferred from Rog to him in one breathless instant.

“And this,” Roger says, dropping to his knees in a fluid motion that Stan’s going to see in dreams for a long time, “is what happens to champions.”

~

Stan decides he needs to keep winning things.


End file.
